Twelve Silly Days of Christmas
by aficionada-de-libros
Summary: Gotham City, he thought with a snort. This is friggin' Gotham City, and the Joker turned all the other clowns loose. – Our favourite vigilantes have a very interesting twelve days of Christmas. Features the whole team including Finch, Reese, Shaw, Carter, Fusco, and of course Bear. Shameless crack and fluff.
1. Partridge in a Pear Tree

_This will be a series of – you guessed it – twelve short one-shots, basically just what it says on the tin. No spoilers, and set between Shaw's arrival and well before "The Crossing", so no Root (because I can't write her for the life of me). Enjoy, and Merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate the holiday._

**Day 1: A Partridge in a Pear Tree**

'_Gotham City', John Reese thought with a snort while doing his darndest to keep the current number safe from their attackers. 'This is friggin' Gotham City, and the Joker turned all the other clowns loose.' He just barely managed to sidestep a blow with a deceptively heavy, bulky object before bodily hauling the potential victim out of the line of fire. 'What on earth has gotten into people recently?' he wondered, briefly considering the admissibility of turning the furious number loose to turn on their opponents and letting the situation resolve itself. During a momentary lull in the altercation, John's brain ran through the increasingly strange cases the team had been getting lately. It all had started two days ago ..._

*POI*POI*POI*

For once in his life, John Reese, former Special Forces soldier and ex-CIA operative, had a hard time keeping a straight face. He fought valiantly to keep in the giggle that threatened to bubble up from somewhere below his ribs, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck as if deep in thought. In the end he gave up and started laughing out loud.

Ten feet above the ground, Harold glared down on him while their current number, a hapless fruit farmer who unwittingly had got in with the wrong crowd. The man struggled to reel in his vicious-looking yard dog that had chased poor Harold across the property before he had got to safety by scrambling up an old, large pear tree with a few low-hanging branches.

As soon as John had recognised his boss's predicament, he had chased after the animal, gun drawn, while the farmer followed hot on his heels, gasping and pleading not to harm the dog. "Baxter's still young, he's just playing!"

"Get him on his leash, or I will!" John growled, holstering his gun and slowing down the tiniest bit.

The farmer lurched forward, scrambling to fasten the leash to the dog's collar and pulling him away from the tree, all the while yelling at Baxter to sit and stay.

Seeing that the dog was under control, John approached the tree, still laughing, and barely resisted the urge to tell Harold to "Just jump, I'll catch you" – the man was still glaring daggers at him. Instead he climbed up a few feet to give Harold a hand in getting down.

The fruit farmer looked on, flustered beyond description and red in the face with embarrassment. His stammered apology just succeeded in sending John into a fresh fit of laughter. "I'm ... I'm so sorry, _Mr Partridge_!"


	2. Turtle Doves

_**A/N: A second chapter today because it's still Christmas, and because I have to make up for the first two days of Christmas when I couldn't post. In this one, there's a teeny tiny reference to 2x22 "God Mode". Oh, and since I forgot in the first chapter, here's the obligatory disclaimer: I do not own Person of Interest or any of its parts, never have, never will, never want to, but the idea for this story is all mine. Enjoy!**_

**Day 2: Two Turtle Doves**

"... and who gets married at Christmas anyway?" Shaw grumbled while speeding through an intersection.

John had a vague sense of déjà vu: he and Shaw, together in a car with her driving at break-neck speed, on their way to deal with a number at a wedding. "People who don't celebrate Christmas, maybe, or people who want an extra-special wedding date, or people ..."

"Yeah, thank you, Oprah," Shaw cut him off. "Get ready, it's over there."

John rolled down his window and tried to assess the situation while Shaw stepped on the brakes and slammed the wheel around, stopping the car right at the edge of the escalating wedding scene.

What happened next would always remain a little fuzzy. All he knew was that he got a shoulder shot into the guy with the samurai sword, who proceeded to stumble backwards, knocking over the birdcage behind him and releasing a pair of thoroughly irritated turtle doves.

The next thing he knew, Shaw was screeching in his ear: "GET THEM OUT! GET THEM OUT!"

And, yes, the car was currently very crowded with one panicking former assassin, two turtle doves, and a flummoxed John Reese.

"DO SOMETHING!" Shaw screeched again, and who knew that a human being could produce a frequency this high?

At her first "GET THEM OUT!" Harold's hands had flown to his head, plugging his ears with his forefingers. When he finally managed to turn the speaker volume down to a safe level, he wondered what just happened. He tried to ask John a question to that effect, but apparently his friend was busy dealing with cause of this highly unusual occurrence.

Meanwhile, John had managed to throw his door open and shoo the scared birds out of the car. Next to him, Shaw was sitting with her arms held protectively in front of her face, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and still making little squeaking noises with each frantic breath.

"Are they gone?" she finally asked in an unfamiliar voice, and for a split second John had a vision of a teenage Shaw screaming hysterically at something or other as only teenage girls can.

_An ex-assassin with ornithophobia. Interesting._ That, of course, was not what he said. "They're gone," he replied in an even voice, pulling his door shut and looking with disgust at the white splotches that now adorned the dashboard. He glanced sideways at the agitated woman behind the steering wheel. "Are you okay to drive?"

Shaw shot around, gritting her teeth and fixing him with her deadliest glare. "If you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll make you sing soprano", she hissed.

Before John could reply or react, Harold's voice came over their ear pieces: "You can try, Miss Shaw, but he'll never hit the top C like you just did."


	3. French Hens

_**A/N: This one is somewhat inspired by episode 2x03 "Masquerade".**_

**Day 3: Three French Hens**

"I hate to say it, Harold, but it seems your precious machine has gone bonkers."

Harold Finch raised his eyebrows at the uncharacteristic statement that came from the other end of the line in an amused voice. "How do you mean, Mr Reese?"

"Isn't it supposed to be on the lookout for lethal intent?"

"That's right. Is anything amiss with the case at the French consulate, Mr Reese?"

"Well, as far as I can see the only lethal danger here is death by high heels," John reported with a barely stifled chuckle.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The French Consul's three daughters seem to be in a fierce feud over their father's credit card concerning their outfits for the Diplomatic New Year's Ball."

"Oh." Harold stared at the screen in front of him, not quite knowing what to make of the information. "Are you sure there's nothing more sinister afoot?"

"Well, my French vocabulary is probably not extensive as yours, but from what I understand, the youngest one seems to have _carte blanche _with Daddy's Visa, while the elder ones are supposed take the money for their expensive tastes from their own funds. They're currently trying to convince Daddy Dearest to recognise the error of his ways. Wait a second."

There was some rustling at the other end, and suddenly Harold heard a string of rapid-fire conversation spiked with insults that he couldn't recall ever having heard coming from a French-speaking person. "Oh my," he repeated.

"What do you want me to do, Harold?" John asked after a moment. "It seems our services aren't required here after a- ... whoa, hang on!"

With the call so abruptly disconnected, Harold hacked himself back into the appropriate audio system in the Consul's residence. The quarrel seemed to have reached new heights, and, going by the grunting and shuffling, John seemed to have been drawn right into the melee.

Harold felt sorry for his employee when he heard the language that was hurled at him as he found himself being rounded on by three furious female teenagers, while 'Daddy Dearest' was suspiciously silent during all this. For John Reese's sake he hoped that his vocabulary was indeed as limited as he wanted to make his boss believe.

An authoritative shout of _"Ça suffit!"*_ and a sharp whistle from John brought on a momentary, stunned lull in the skirmish, followed by the familiar scratch of claws on hardwood caused by a dog barrelling towards his master.

"Bear, _bewaken_!"** Well, that explained the sudden silence on the other end. Harold couldn't resist hacking into the feed of the surveillance camera in order to get a visual on the highly peculiar scene that seemed to be unfolding in the Consul's residence.

He tuned in just in time to see the three teenage girls huddling together on the loveseat, kept in check by a growling Bear. In the meantime, John levelled the Consul's with an impressive stare, slightly leaning over the desk and stretching out his hand. "Donnez-moi votre portefeuille, s'il vous plaît."*** Well, there was definitely no "s'il vous plaît" in John's tone.

With a shaking hand, the Consul handed over his wallet, obviously wavering between suspicion and relief at the imminent resolution of his daughter's dispute.

John gave a curt nod, opened the wallet, took out a few notes and, turning around to the man's daughters, held them up at his eye level.

"Here are three hundred dollars, a hundred for each of you, to spend on your outfits," he proceeded to explain in fluent, accent-free French. "The rest will have to come out of your own funds. Understood?"

Apparently shocked into silence, the girls nodded, filing past John in an orderly manner and receiving the money without a word of protest.

When they had disappeared from the room, John calmly handed the wallet back to the visibly grateful Consul, politely excused himself, and left with Bear hot on his heels.

"That was extremely well handled, Mr Reese," Harold said once John was out of the door. "I'm deeply impressed."

"Gee, thanks, Finch," John replied in a slightly ironic tone. "It seems that French _is _the language of diplomacy, after all."

_A/N 2: My sincere thanks go to the fine online dictionaries that provided me with the following translations: _

* "That's enough!"

** "Keep watch!"

*** "Hand me your wallet, please."


	4. Calling Birds

_**A/N: Thank you everyone who has read, reviewed, and/or put this story on alert. I'm glad to know that I succeeded in making you laugh. Not much plot in this one, but Reese and Shaw are so much fun to write! Enjoy!**_

**Day 4: Calling Birds**

"Ssank you for beeing our customer todeh, and pleeass come agehn soon."*

John stifled a chuckle, and even Harold's lips curled up in an amused smile. "Yep, Shaw has the German accent down pat," the ex-CIA operative grinned while inconspicuously observing the goings-on around the shop of the cuckoo clock maker who was their latest number.

"Shut up, Reese, or I'll install an undeletable cuckoo clock app on your phone," Shaw growled under her breath. Her German language skills were the only reason why she had agreed to go undercover in the shop, though she now sincerely doubted the sanity of her decision. It was not even noon on her first day of the assignment, and she was about ready to start putting dynamite sticks in the little doors ...

"Do you have any clue yet as to how they are delivering those drugs?" Harold interrupted the usual squabbling of his two employees.

"It's the first half of my first day here, Harold. What do you think?" the assassin-turned-shop-assistant snapped quietly. Whatever else she was going to say, it was drowned out by a cacophony of cuckoo clocks signalling the full hour.

Through the shop window Shaw caught a glimpse of John ripping out his earpiece at the horrible din which no doubt translated to all sorts of unbearable frequencies in the sensitive electronic item. "Serves you right," she muttered, fighting the urge to plug her ears with her fingers.

When the noise died down, John put his earpiece back in place just in time to hear Harold saying: "That's odd ..."

"What is?" the two operatives asked back in unison.

"The sound of the cuckoo clocks. Some of them are off-tune, so to speak."

"So? Maybe that is on purpose? Not that I'd call any of this 'well-tuned'," Shaw grumbled.

"I'll have to run a frequency analysis to confirm, but some of them sound muffled."

"You think they are transporting the drugs within the clocks?" John asked, already plotting a way to take down the traffickers, preferably with a lasting impression on their patellae.

"Miss Shaw, can you take sound samples from all clocks in the showroom?"

"And how do you want me to do that? Don't tell me I have to ring them one by one ..."

"That would be ideal ..."

"Harold!"

"... but also both inconvenient and suspicious. I think it should suffice to knock on the casings one by one and find out which of them sound dull."

"They all sound dull," Shaw muttered but set to work.

Apparently it was her lucky day. The shop owner was out for lunch, so within thirty minutes she had identified the four cuckoo clocks that sounded different from the others. "Okay. I'm going to open them now," she finally announced.

From the other side of the street, John saw her bending over the counter and carefully removing the front panels of the carved clocks.

"Would you believe it," she said a few minutes later, her usual sullen tone replaced by a gleeful sneer. "Four little doped-up calling birds."

_*No offense to anyone speaking English with a German accent. Rest assured that it is almost as hard to put into writing as it is to get rid of in speaking ..._


	5. Gold Rings

_**A/N: Just a really short one today, got my nieces over for a few days. Enjoy!**_

**Day 5: Gold Rings**

"Move it, Fusco! He's getting away!"

_Well, thanks for the update, Wonderboy! _It didn't take John Reese's impatient words to see the problem at hand. Mr Tall, Dark and Crazy, as Lionel had secretly dubbed him, was currently busy handcuffing one of the two robbers who had shot a cashier in a bank job this morning. Lionel Fusco on his part was valiantly chasing the other one across the school yard – of all places! –, but quickly losing ground on him.

Suddenly the robber cut to the right and burst through a side door into the gym. That was actually not bad, since Fusco knew Carter was in there, canvassing the building. With renewed energy he took the turn as well and followed the thug inside.

What they all had failed to consider was the Christmas performance that was in full swing in the gym. Before the horrified eyes of thirty-odd primary school kids and their parents and grandparents, the armed robber raced onto the stage, with Fusco lumbering after him.

"Fiiiiiive goooo-hold riiiiiings ...!" The seven-year old soloist, a chubby little boy with wildly curly brown hair, found himself roughly shoved aside, landing on his bottom. With a flying tackle, Lionel ploughed the robber across the stage and right into the colourful nativity scene.

Carter came running from the locker room just in time to see the papier-mâché ox and donkey crashing down on the two entangled men on the straw-littered stage. Biting back a giggle she hurried to help her partner secure the thug.

While they were busy handcuffing the man, the little singer recovered enough to get back on his feet. Seeing that all eyes were on the stage, he stepped forward with a proud puff of his chest and, as if nothing had ever happened, belted out: "Fiiiiiive goooo-hold riiiiiings ...!"

_**A/N 2: Honestly, I had ideas for all days except this one – so I had to improvise a bit. Hope you still liked it.**_


	6. Geese and Swans

_**A/N: Thank you again for all reviews, alerts etc. I really appreciate those! Sorry for the wait ... New Years and visitors and late nights – you know how it is. Anyway, for this instalment, I wrapped Day 6 and 7 together in one, because water fowl times two? It just made sense. Enjoy! **_

**Day 6 (and 7): Geese and Swans**

"Bear, _zoeken_!" John held the suit jacket out for Bear to sniff thoroughly before he let go of the collar and left the dog to bound off after their current number. He followed the Malinois in a light jog, wondering with a certain amount of exasperation how one and the same person managed to pop up in the Machine's system again and again and again ...

"Shaw, do you have eyes on Leon?" he asked his teammate who was scouring this particular part of Central Park from the opposite side.

"Negative. What about you, Lionel?"

"Nothing. Tell me again why you had to drag me into this? Is canvassing Central Park too much of a challenge for the Dynamic Duo, or do you just like to annoy me?"

"Stop whining, Fusco," John interjected. "You should be grateful; this is a good opportunity to work off some of the cream donuts you had for breakfast."

"Oh, shut it, Wonderboy," the slightly panting voice of the trusty Detective came over the line.

"Hey, I think Bear is onto something. Shaw, he's headed in your direction. Fusco, move down to the pond."

"Copy that." For all their whining, grumbling and protesting, the 'executive branch' of their little vigilante enterprise had accepted John Reese as their leader quite unquestioningly. The only exception to that, in a way, was Joss Carter: she didn't even have to use words to challenge his ideas, though she would still follow his lead when out in the field.

"Where on earth is he going?" Shaw wondered when she saw the dog disappearing under the low-hanging branches of an old weeping willow.

"Guess he found him," Fusco mumbled when Bear started barking.

The next second a storm broke loose. There was cackling and howling and yelling and shouting, rustling and cracking, sloshing and cursing, and eventually hissing and splashing.

The fearless trio stopped dead in their tracks, dumbfounded at the sight before them: Six angry geese on the bank, charging from their nesting places towards the water; seven hissing swans on the pond rapidly swimming towards the bank, furious at the disturbance in their territory; and a barking Bear and a frightened Leon caught in the middle. For all intents and purposes, the whole scene looked like right out of _West Side Story_.

Fusco just stood there, doubling over with laughter. Shaw instinctively retreated several steps, trying to bring as much distance as possible between herself and the birds without outright running away. John, however, was at a complete loss. Short of starting to kneecap the waterfowl, he had no idea how to solve the conundrum.

A strange quacking noise caught them all by surprise. It started somewhat faintly in a short distance, growing louder and more insistent with each passing second. And then the most remarkable thing happened: the geese and the swans started moving towards the sound, completely losing interest in their canine and human prey.

Fusco, Reese and Shaw craned their heads, trying to figure out what the sound was ... until their eyes fell on the short, limping figure of the genius mastermind of their little enterprise. The man was blowing into something that seemed to be a peculiarly-shaped whistle of some sort, slowly moving across the green and luring the waterfowl away from the pond.

The baffled trio shook off their bewilderment and went to help Leon and Bear out of their predicament. While John clipped the leash to Bear's collar and Lionel handcuffed hapless Leon, Shaw kept staring at Harold's retreating back. "What the heck was that?" she finally asked, sheer incredulity dripping from her words.

Finch's cultured voice coming over their ear pieces made them all jump: "Well, _if it quacks like a duck_ ..."

_**A/N 2: I just **_**had**_** to include Leon in this! – Also, drop a note if you like. I'd love to hear from you!**_


	7. Milking Maids

_**A/N: Well, this takes us to the 8**__**th**__** day of Christmas. Now, how on earth do you put "eight maids a-milking" into blooming New York City?**_

_**Special thanks go to guest reviewer Phoenix615: I'm glad you like the story so much, and I hope you'll keep reading!**_

_**Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing but the crazy ideas in my head. And it's a good thing I have a great day job that I love, because I'll probably never make any money from this. **_

**Day 8: Milking Maids**

By now Shaw and Reese were convinced that the Machine had it in for them. This Christmas season had been nothing short of bizarre so far. When they met in the library in the morning, they were almost dreading what kind of ridiculous scenario the flipping thing had coughed up today.

As it turned out, their fears were justified ... well, Shaw's were.

"Ah, a very good morning to you, Ms Shaw, Mr Reese!" The two former assassins looked at each other in horror. A cheerful Harold _never, ever _boded well for them. "You're just in time for our little field trip!"

"Field trip where, Finch?" John asked, the back of his neck prickling with a disgusting sense of foreboding.

"To the country fair!" his boss announced with a broad smile on his face. "Meet our newest number, Mr Charles Boyd aka Chuck Buckwheat. He's the manager of the 'Miss Milking Maid' contest, and he's been receiving anonymous death threats." Harold pinned some photos to the wall, leaving John and Sameen to stare at the cliché of a man: short, overweight, almost bald, dressed in tacky cowboy garb, and in each picture with a different beautiful woman on his arm.

"Lemme guess, Harold," Shaw scoffed, "death threats from jealous boyfriends?"

"Either that, or from his fed-up wife," John remarked drily, pointing to the "married" status in the man's social security record.

"Quite correct, Mr Reese," replied Harold. "In order to identify and eliminate the threat, I think it might be best for you to go undercover. John, you'll fill in for the stable manager who is currently indisposed ..."

The back of John's neck prickled harder. "Indisposed how?" he growled.

"It seems like the poor man got kicked in a sensitive spot by a feisty cow two days ago and is now laid up in the urological ward of the nearest hospital." The two men grimaced in sympathy while Shaw made no effort to suppress her giggle.

"And you, Miss Shaw," Harold continued, "will be entering the contest. One of the eight ladies in the quarter-finals was disqualified for trying to give her competitors a severe case of diarrhoea. – Now on to more crucial questions ..." Finch pretended not to notice the death glare Shaw was levelling at him. "... do you know how to milk a cow?"

_**A/N 2: Yes, this instalment ends here. If the muse clobbers me upside the head, I might expand this into a full story, but for now, I leave the mental image to your imagination. Thanks for reading, and drop me a note, if you like!**_


	8. Ladies Dancing

_**A/N: Three cheers to ravenhusker, my most faithful reviewer for this story!**_

_**This one will be more fluff than humour, and maybe a little something for all of you Careese fans? I just couldn't resist.**_

**Day 9: Ladies Dancing**

"Care to explain what you are doing here in the ladies' locker room?"

John's head snapped around, and he couldn't help blush a little. Trying to cover his embarrassment with his most charming schoolboy grin he replied smoothly: "Why, Detective Carter, has there been a homicide at the ballet?"

"Not yet, but if the ballerinas catch you here, I'll guarantee for nothing."

Awkwardly scratching the back of his neck, John tried not to let Joss' smile get to him, the one that always made his heart skip a beat, the one that made him putty in her hands.

"Finch called me," she explained, carefully looking around before entering the locker room and closing the door behind her. "He said you might need some help finding your way around the ladies' make-up kits."

John Reese blushed even more. "Yeah, he might be right about that. I have no idea how to tell a foundation apart from a finish ... or what either of that looks like," he mumbled, holding up a clear plastic bag full of make-up products with a comically helpless expression.

"What exactly are you looking for?" Joss asked, taking the bag from him and studying it closely.

"We think someone might try to incapacitate several of the dancers by poisoning their make-up."

"Huh ... but why did Harold put _you _on the case and not Shaw? She might know better what to look for," the pretty detective said with a teasing twinkle in her eyes.

John snorted. "She threatened to decorate his face with permanent make-up if he, and I quote, 'dumped another girly case on her'."

Joss laughed, shaking her head. "Do I even want to know?" She opened the door of the next locker, standing on her tiptoes to reach for the make-up bag without pulling anything else off the small shelf. However, the buttons on the sleeve of her blazer caught on something, and when she pulled out her hand, she pulled along a cream-coloured leotard.

Noticing the garment, John wiggled his eyebrows. "I'd love to see you in that," he drawled with a cocky smirk.

"John Reese!" Carter retorted with feigned indignation. "It seems I need to give Shaw a little call, you know, woman to woman."

Seeing the grin wiped off the face of the six-foot-two former CIA operative made the pint-sized NYPD detective giggle with glee.

Apparently they hadn't been as quiet as they thought, because suddenly the door to the locker room flew open and an angry yell echoed through the tiled room. "What are you doing here?!"

Before they knew what happened, the pair found themselves surrounded by nine furious ballerinas. "And what are you doing with my make-up, you sicko?" one particularly irate dancer screamed in John's ear, which was not an easy feat as she barely reached up to his armpit.

"NYPD, ladies," Carter interrupted, pulling out her badge, all business now.

There was a moment of stunned silence; then all of the dancers began chattering at once. John shot Joss a desperate look, but she only responded by raising her eyebrows in an I-told-you-so expression.

Half an hour later a flustered John Reese followed a highly amused Joss Carter out of the locker room. "Next time I'll tell Harold to send Lionel," he muttered, frantically wiping nine shades of lipstick off his face with the sleeve of his white dress shirt, his jacket hanging from one shoulder, shirttails untucked and hair dishevelled.

The detective made a choking noise, trying very hard not to burst into laughter. "Oh, come on, John," she wheezed, "did you really not see that coming?"

"What?" John stopped in mid-stride, staring at the giggling policewoman. "What did I say?"

With a facetious grin, Joss closed the short distance between them, reached up and teasingly traced a finger around one of the lipstick marks on his slightly stubbly cheek. "Next time you're dealing with a horde of hyped-up twenty-somethings, don't ask 'What do I have to do to get make-up samples from you?'"


	9. Lords Leaping

_**A/N: A big THANK YOU to all of you patient readers, and sorry for getting back to this story only now. I felt that last week was no week for comedy. Both in my life and my field of work I am blessed with many international colleagues and friends, and though I am grateful that all of them are safe and sound so far, the events of last week hit scarily close to home for some of them. So, while I am determined to finish this story on a cheerful note, I hope you'll understand if the last two instalments come out shorter and a little more subdued than they might have otherwise.**_

**Day 10: Lords Leaping**

"Is this the O'Leary wedding?" Joss Carter asked the next best half-sober looking wedding guest that crossed her way.

"Yeah, why?" the middle-aged man replied, squinting at her badge as if trying to keep it in focus.

"Somebody called us reporting a disturbance," Fusco said, inserting himself between Carter and the man who had given up on the badge and now seemed much more interested in her flowery perfume.

"Oh, yeah. Musta been Neil there. Over a'the bar. Guy _without _a tux."

"Thanks, mate," Joss replied, trying to suppress a smile at her partner's protectiveness. Admittedly, Fusco's burly stature came in very handy as they now tried to shove their way through the tightly packed room. There was cheerful Irish music, but strangely enough, the crowd seemed to be more or less rooted to the spot.

Eventually the two detectives reached the bar where Reese and Shaw were keeping the two irate troublemakers pinned to the floor. They nodded a greeting at each other, though Shaw seemed slightly distracted. Joss made to take the ruffian off her hands, but then she followed the fascinated look the other woman was casting at the dancefloor. A formation of ten extremely handsome dancers was moving slightly towards them, every step and skip and leap perfectly in time with the rhythm of the music, and perfectly in sync with each other.

Absent-mindedly the two ladies hauled the perp to his feet and shoved him towards their male teammates, never taking their eyes of this perfection of male physique.

"What the heck?" Fusco started to complain when he unexpectedly found his hands full with a barely upright, drunk college boy, but then he heard Reese huffing out an annoyed sound. He looked over to see the ex-op roll his eyes, shaking his head and casting a slightly – what, jealous? – sidelong glance towards Joss.

Somehow Carter seemed to pick up on this slight change in the air, because she stole a quick look at Reese and proceeded to turn an interesting shade of pink, throwing him an apologetic smile.

Shaw, however, was oblivious to all of this. Without really looking she snagged a glass of whiskey from the startled guy next to her and downed it in one go. Leaning back against the bar with a wide grin she murmured, "Now _that's_ what I call legwork ..."

_**A/N 2: Just in case you're wondering (and because one reviewer said I should have made it a Scottish wedding ... because of the kilts *LOL*) - this was in part inspired by Lord-of-the-Dance-meet-Irish-wedding videos on youtube. Just type in 'Irish wedding dancers' and pick fairly at random, and you'll see what I mean. Also, I like a nice tushie in nice trousers - a kilt just takes away from that IMHO :)**_


	10. Pipers and Drummers

_A/N: Dear Readers, this concludes my Christmas series. Thank you all for reading and reviewing, following and favouriting. Special thanks go to the Guest Reviewers whom I could not thank personally._

_It's been fun writing those little one-shots. This last one will be very short, because it was either going to be a full-blown chapter with plot and everything (and I lacked both the time and the inspiration to do that), or more like a triple drabble (which is what came out in the end). Enjoy!_

**Day 11 (and 12): Pipers and Drummers**

"Tell me again why we're providing security detail for an _Army marching band?_" Fusco managed to sound annoyed, puzzled, and curious at the same time.

"Because, Detective Fusco," Finch's slightly nasal voice came over the line, "there is no official protocol for imminent death by wind instruments and drumsticks."

John, who was standing next to Lionel and had followed the exchange, chuckled quietly. "I still can't imagine how the conductor managed to drive them so far up the wall that they are ready to kill him."

"I can," Shaw on the far side of the ballroom interjected with gusto. "I barely spent five minutes tailing this guy before I was ready to off him."

"Oh, come on, Shaw," Joss drawled, audibly amused. "What do you expect? He's an _artist_."

"Anyhoo," Fusco tried to get back to his original question, "do we have any idea who might snap first?"

"I have my money on that little drummer girl over there," Reese speculated. "You know, the one who barely made the cut for physical requirements to get in the Army."

"You might be right about that," Shaw confirmed. "He's been nagging her all morning."

"Yeah," Joss agreed. "She definitely looks like she's either going to burst into tears or to shove her drumsticks into him where the sun doesn't shine."

"All right. Let's try to separate her from the rest of the band and talk to her in private," Reese said, making eye contact with the rest of the team.

"You know what's funny," Lionel mused while all four of them were very slowly closing in on their suspect, "eleven pipers and twelve drummers ... isn't that just like in that Christmas song? ... What? Why are you guys face-palming?"

_... And in the library, Harold's hard drives all made a strange sputtering sound that he could have sworn sounded like a giggle._

**THE END**

_A/N 2: That's it. I hope you liked it. So if you'll please excuse me now – I'm going to go throw out my Christmas tree ..._


End file.
